


One Traveler, Long Stood

by kaythenorthface



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (with an OMC), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Breaking Up & Making Up, Denial of Feelings, Disabled Character, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaythenorthface/pseuds/kaythenorthface
Summary: Maia takes a deep breath, looking up to catch his gaze. Her face twitches, caught in a pre-emptive wince. “Alec’s getting married,” she says. "To a man this time. Khalid Elmasry of the Cairo Institute.”“Oh,” Magnus says, careful to make sure his face is wiped of all expression. “I see.”(Or: Everyone in the Shadow World thinks Alec Lightwood is getting married to the strong, handsome Shadowhunter visiting from Egypt... except for Alec.)





	One Traveler, Long Stood

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: a brief instance of ableist language, and perhaps depression, if those symptoms aren't fully covered under the tag for PTSD
> 
> Title is from "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost, because "Two Roads Diverged" seemed a little too cliché to use
> 
> This fic assumes that Alec and Magnus fully broke up in episode 2x18 and never got back together. The characterization is based heavily on Magnus in book 6 of TMI, in addition to the show.

The act of brewing a potion can either be excessively dull or mindlessly soothing, depending on Magnus’s mood and overall energy level at the time. On this particular day, Magnus is bored from the moment he sets the copper pot to boil, hands so used to this pattern of stirring that he can pay the bare minimum of attention necessary and trust that the final product will be as superb as the rest of his work.

 

The magical equivalent of Ambien is a complex potion for any warlock, even one with Magnus’s vast experience, full of precise turns and counter-turns, and requiring expensive ingredients easily destroyed if not kept to exact heat levels. In the wake of the Dark War, however, he’s regularly been hired by Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike who need help falling into dreamless sleep after seeing their friends and families murdered in front of them (or worse, needing to be the ones to kill their loved ones, in the case of Sebastian’s Endarkened). For months, Magnus has been hired for this brew at least once a week.

 

During the brief period of time where Alec spent every night of the week in Magnus’s bed, Magnus was the one who had trouble sleeping, haunted by the memories of his mother’s suicide, and the ensuing burst of fire from his own hand, violently consuming his stepfather. Whenever he slept, Alec did so easily, exhausted by the physical and emotional demands of his job. Soon after his head hit the pillow, his breathing would relax and his body would go heavy, unmoving throughout the rest of the night, unless he rolled in his sleep, reaching for Magnus. At night, Alec was so motionless he was unnoticeable, really. It was no different having him in bed than it was sleeping without.

 

Sometimes, when his mind wanders in the midst of preparing these potions, Magnus wonders if that’s still the case—if Alec’s still blessed with the comfort of sleep after everything he experienced in the war. Alec’s never been good at letting others know when he needs help. If he’s been tormented by nightmares, it’s hard to imagine he’ll turn up at Magnus’s door.

 

Magnus finds himself frowning as he adds a pinch of dried lavender (not a necessary herb but one he favors for the pleasant smell) to the gently rolling liquid, so he turns his attention to the two women sitting in his parlor. They’d been talking for a while about swordplay, which hadn’t done anything for Magnus’s growing despair at the tediousness of the situation, but while his mind drifted, they’d changed topics and begun to gossip, which _is_ a topic Magnus can enthusiastically get behind.

 

“From _Cairo?”_ says the one with thick rimmed glasses and dark hair. He recognizes her from past visits to the Institute. “Have you _seen_ him?”

 

“No,” says the other. Her voice rises with excitement. “Why? Is he cute?”

 

His interactions with the Shadowhunters have been limited to clients of late, but Magnus can sympathize that the ranks of young, good-looking Shadowhunter men in New York have become exceedingly limited. The one most women find bafflingly attractive—Jace Herondale—is taken by Magnus’s favorite red-haired beauty. The one Magnus would’ve argued for, if he still had a stake in the game, is unquestionably gay. Most of the remaining Shadowhunter men are dead, already married, or away at the Academy.

 

“He’s _gorgeous,”_ says the first woman. “Eyes as green as the forests in Idris, bigger arms than Jace Herondale—” Magnus makes a face. Yes, there’s that baffling crush all Shadowhunter women seem to have. “Tall. Everything you could want.”

 

“How’s he in a fight?” the other woman asks.

 

“He could almost beat _Isabelle Lightwood_ with a whip.”

 

There’s a chorus of matching sighs. Despite himself, Magnus feels the corner of his mouth turn up. That has to be wishful thinking. No one can beat Isabelle with her weapon of choice. Nonetheless, he thinks it’s nice to see people excited again, happy for simple things, like unexpected visitors and cute guys. It feels like a sign of progress, some small piece of proof that they’re all finally moving on from the war.

 

**

 

Catarina gets a rare night off from those “Nephilim brats” she’s teaching at the Academy (said with a disturbing amount of affection), and insists he take her out for some real food as a reward for her suffering at the hands of the guest chefs the Shadowhunters call in to feed the students their daily servings of gruel. Magnus knows perfectly well that Catarina could summon herself dinner from a Michelin restaurant every night if she so pleased, but he obliges her anyway, partly because they haven’t gotten much _Magnus & Catarina_ time of late, not since before the war, and partly because it’s been so long since he left his apartment for food or drinks that he’s starting to feel like a recluse.

 

After a hearty dinner of Kourma Challow and Kaddo at a charming Afghani restaurant a few blocks away from Magnus’s place, they find themselves at the Hunter's Moon, extending the night with several rounds of drinks. They’re not an especially entertaining pair at this stage in their lives. Most of Catarina’s stories center around her new role as a teacher, and most of Magnus’s stories center around his clients or his cats. They regularly fall into stretches of silence only made comfortable by hundreds of years of knowing one another—the absolute certainty only time can bring that they enjoy being in each other’s company no matter how riveting their conversations.

 

The bar is loud from the collective hum of conversation at the dozens of tables packed into the small space. Every person in earshot seems to be talking about the same thing. There’s news out of the New York Institute—some upcoming wedding, by the sound of it. Magnus keeps catching fragments:

 

“First wedding in _years_...:”

 

“...Shadowhunter _royalty...”_

_“_...good Shadowhunter families.”

 

That particular kind of awe seems to be collectively reserved for the war heroes; the small handful of people who’d managed it make it past Jonathan’s defenses and put a stop to his reign of terror once and for all. Based on the way people are talking, it could very well be Jace and Clary who are getting married. That would be something—his biscuit, all grown up and starting a new life. If he could swing an invitation, he’d love to go and catch up with her and Luke both.

 

Craning his head to better hear a chatty table in the back corner of the bar, Magnus finally manages to catch the tail end of a name: _Lightwood_. Isabelle and Simon, then. He can’t help smiling, happy for both of them, even if his heart twists with something small and a little bitter.

 

Catarina must hear the name too, because she suddenly speaks, interrupting their stretch of comfortable silence. “I keep waiting for you to reunite with that Lightwood boy of yours,” she says. “Don’t you feel you’ve tortured him enough?”

 

“He isn’t _my_ Lightwood,” Magnus corrects, rolling his eyes. He ignores the rest of it.

 

“Why not?” Catarina asks, brown eyes too knowing; lips pursed in a smirk at his expense. “By all accounts, you were disgustingly happy. Raphael said he’d never seen you so in love.”

 

Neither subject—Raphael, who he misses far more than he would’ve expected considering all they did when they spent time together was bicker, or Alec, who he misses exactly as much as he’d known he would, an incessant ache— is one he cares to explore during what was supposed to be a pleasant evening.

 

“It’s over,” Magnus says, taking a sip of his drink. He grimaces. “You’ve said it before— I’m doomed in love.”

 

“So he made a mistake,” Catarina says. “I agree, he should’ve told you about the sword, but you’ve made _plenty_ of your own.”

 

“I take offense to that,” Magnus tells her.

 

Catarina talks over him. “Why can’t you take him back? I liked the way you were when you were with him, and I’ve never felt that way about anyone you dated before.”

 

The harsh lights of the bar are suddenly too bright. Magnus swallows again. “We were never going to work,” he says, and tastes acid. “We’re too different. Our jobs are always going to conflict. He’ll always be a Shadowhunter and I’ll always have demon blood. I’ll live for hundreds more years, and there’s a ticking clock over his head. Any day he could...” He doesn’t finish.

 

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Catarina points out, eyes going soft. Soft isn’t a look he’s used to seeing from Catarina. It’s disconcerting and just plain _wrong_ , like the baby Shadowhunters at her school have managed to chip away at her constant facade of indifference to the world. “You’ve been with other mortals.”

 

Caught off guard, Magnus can’t stop himself from saying, “Alec is different. If he… I couldn’t…”

 

That sentence will never end well. He lifts his martini to his mouth, intending to down the remainder, only to discover that he’s somehow already finished it.

 

“Ah,” Magnus says, delicately. “That’s my cue to return to the bar.” He rises to his feet, carefully avoiding meeting her eyes.

 

A familiar face greets him from behind the taps. Although Maia recently started an internship with the New York Aquarium, she still takes a few shifts a week to help cover rent and meals out. As always, he’s pleased to see her.

 

Magnus shoots her a winning smile. “Hello beautiful.”

 

“Hey Magnus,” she says, brightening. “The usual?” she asks. Then her expression does something complicated. “Or something stronger?”

 

“The usual,” Magnus says, raising an eyebrow. He hadn’t realized he was acting so transparently maudlin today. After this drink, perhaps it would be time to call it a night. It wouldn’t do to have the Downworld gossiping tomorrow about the High Warlock of Brooklyn drowning his sorrows in cocktails. He’s supposed to be a _fun_ drinker. Fitzgerald always said so, at least.

 

“So,” Magnus says, dialing his smile up a notch while Maia moves behind the bar, carefully pouring assorted liquids into a shaker. “I hear there’s cause for celebration.”

 

“Celebration?” Maia asks, pausing with one hand in the ice bin. She sounds so dubious that Magnus can’t help but wonder if he’s somehow misunderstood the drunken ramblings he’s been overhearing.

 

“There’s a wedding, I hear?” Magnus says, feeling like there’s something he’s missing—a feeling he’s always _hated_ — but continuing anyway. “Is it the charming Isabelle and our Simon?”

 

Maia blinks. She blinks a second time before that strange expression returns, even more pronounced. There’s something like sympathy on her face, which isn’t a sentiment Magnus is accustomed to receiving from Maia, who’s lived through as many hardships in 20 years as he has in 200, and only come out stronger for it.

 

“Oh _shit,”_ Maia says. “Do you not know?”

 

“Know _what_?” Magnus demands, starting to feel irritated. Again, he should always be the purveyor of secrets, not the last one to know the city’s most titillating news.

 

Maia’s brown eyes go soft the same way Catarina’s had. She tips her head, curls bouncing while she looks to the floor, like she can’t bear to look at him while she delivers her news.

 

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard,” she mutters, more to herself than to him.

 

“Maia,” Magnus prompts impatiently.

 

Maia takes a deep breath, looking up to catch his gaze. Her face twitches, caught in a pre-emptive wince. “Alec’s getting married,” she says.

 

His first, most knee-jerk reaction isn’t even to be upset about it. It seems so obvious to him that the Clave would’ve put their foot down and insisted on this in the wake of the war’s destruction. He feels _sad_ for Alec. 

 

“Again?” Magnus asks, frustration rising. Of _course_ they’re making Alec marry. The ranks of the Shadowhunters are dangerously depleted. They need every soldier’s help to repopulate. Knowing Alec, there’s even a good chance he volunteered, damning himself to save his people. “ _Raziel._ Didn’t they learn their lesson the first time?”

 

“They did,” Maia says, voice gentle, like she’s talking to one of her cubs. “That’s why he’s engaged to a man this time. Khalid Elmasry of the Cairo Institute.”

 

That’s when Magnus remembers the two women in his study who were going on about the visiting Shadowhunter, perfect in every way. _That’s_ who’s getting married. Alec is marrying the handsome, strong Egyptian man who’s visiting the New York Institute.

 

Once, when he was younger, and significantly weaker than he is now, Magnus had one of his own spells blocked and deflected back to him. The force of the rebound had ricocheted through him, momentarily stunning him while every muscle in his body screamed in protest at the shock of magic thrust upon him. The effect of Maia’s words is similar. He freezes, mouth moving soundlessly, barely able to think, let alone find a way to control himself—to keep Maia from noticing his too obvious reaction.

 

“Oh,” he says, careful to make sure his face is wiped of all expression. “I see.”

 

“I’m really sorry,” Maia says, reaching across the counter to lay a hand on his arm. “You know what? Drinks on me the rest of the night.”

 

**

When he gets home and is alone in his apartment, Magnus gives into the urge to… mope is an undignified word, but he does something like that, sinking into his favorite armchair, an amber tinted glass in hand. Looking out the windows at the dark sky, only faintly tinged by the lights of the city, it’s hard not to give in to a sense of bleakness. For well over a century, New York has been home to him, the vibrant center of his world, filled with most of his favorite people. Lately, though, it’s been feeling more like a reminder of all that he’s lost: Ragnor. Dot. Raphael. Many of his favorite places, places he’d gone with them, now only fill him with sadness.

 

With little luster for work, and no one to see but Catarina and Maia, lately he’s been feeling at a loss. He keeps thinking it's a sign he should pack up and move somewhere else; Valparaiso, maybe, where he could feed off the energy of the night and be cheered by the colorful murals painted on every inch of the walls and streets (not to mention drinking the pisco sours). Or he could go to Warsaw, the city finally shaking off the burden of the past to become a young, vibrant place. The idle thoughts never seem to go anywhere. New York has been making him miserable but something has been holding him back every time he thinks about leaving.

 

A second glass in, his thoughts turn, as they too often do, to Alec. A memory rises, vivid and bittersweet, in the span of time where he can’t fill his thoughts…

 

**

 

Coming to Alicante had never been a pleasant experience. No matter the century, the Shadowhunters had always managed to look at him like he was an insect that had slipped in through a hole in the screen, but that they didn’t want to kill for fear of staining the walls, conveniently forgetting that they were the ones who’d called _him_ asking for his assistance in the first place.

 

This time, they’d summoned him to Idris for an emergency meeting of the Downworlder Council. Despair saturated the air. The Shadowhunters were running out of options to save their kind. Each person he passed in the halls looked tense, taking clipped steps, hands poised over the blades at their belts. There was a current to their movements, ever present, that suggested the Nephilim were starting to give up hope. As much as Magnus hated their arrogance, _had_ hated their ever-present condescension, it was hard to watch. The loss of pride was something shameful and secret, and not something the Nephilim would want a Downworlder to see.

 

Magnus moved quickly, wanting to reach a place where he could portal out as soon as possible. The meeting had been exactly the same as every other Magnus had been forced to endure: First, the Clave had expressed their “strong hopes” that the Downworlders would aid them in collecting information about Sebastian and his movements. The Downworlders had expressed their _concerns_ of siding too noticeably with the Shadowhunters for fear of having their people annihilated the way the wolves had been. Shockingly, the Clave hadn’t been sympathetic. After that, they’d struggled to find much common ground.

 

The long hallway that led from the private chamber where they’d held the meeting to the main complex where the wards were lighter was framed on both sides by arches of glass, showcasing breathtaking views of the snowcapped mountains surrounding Idris. He spent a majority of the walk thinking about how much he couldn’t wait to get back to New York and pour himself a bountiful glass of whiskey. It was easier to forget there was a war going on outside when you could close the curtains, change into something more comfortable, put on a good record, and kick your feet up. A stiff drink had always helped ease the sting of knowing that no matter how much he’d helped the Shadowhunters in the past, he’d never have the respect of the Clave.

 

After several minutes, the walkway finally opened up, spitting him into a usually bustling entryway. The previous times he’d been here, it’d been packed to the brim with Shadowhunters, each one moving with determination to training or rune studies, or to the mess hall. Here, in the Shadowhunter’s most sacred city, it was clear how much—how many—they’d lost to the ongoing war. Their ranks had thinned considerably. The enormous chamber felt empty. There were only a few clusters of soldiers moving through the space. The pervasive quiet was staggering proof of how systematically Sebastian was destroying them.

 

In the midst of it, the tall Shadowhunter leaning against a far wall, one knee bent, foot planted on a stone block, stood out like a beacon. His arms were crossed. While he listened to an older woman speak, diagramming something with her hands, he let his head fall, and the light overhead splayed across the thick black lines of the rune covering most of his neck.

 

Magnus froze mid-step, left nearly paralyzed by the wave of relief that washed over him. He had contacts everywhere, friends across the world, Idris included. Each time word had come of a new attack, he’d told himself he’d _know_... that someone would’ve told him if Alec had died. But it was one thing to think Alec was still alive, and something else to _see_ Alec with his own eyes, breathing and unharmed, after so many long months feeling sick worrying otherwise.

 

For a few seconds, it was impossible to look away from that figure propped against the wall. Alec had always commanded Magnus’s attention like no one else, the brightest spot in any room. However loaded it came with memories both good and bad, the sight of Alec’s face was more precious than any of the artifacts in Magnus’s apartment. Magnus gave himself a moment to let the relief wash over him. It was most comforting feeling he’d experienced in a long time. Then he forced himself to stop staring and move, trying to keep his head down until he made it to the doors.

 

Alec’s voice carried, loud and strong, across the space. “Magnus.”

 

Magnus didn’t slow. He kept walking, listening expectantly.

 

“ _Magnus,”_ Alec repeated, raising his voice further. There was the clatter of boots hitting the floor, and then Alec was suddenly right in front of him, in arm’s reach, pretty hazel eyes locked on Magnus. “Hey,” he said, sounding winded. “Magnus. You’re… what are you doing here?”

 

Since the last time Magnus had seen him, stone faced while Magnus stood behind the Seelie Queen, gaze pleading every time Magnus made the mistake of looking at him, the carnage of war had taken its toll on Alec. There were lines framing his eyes that hadn’t been there in recent memory. He’d lost weight. His dark shirt hung loose against his chest. Greater than the physical changes, there was a weariness to him; something tired about the way he moved.

 

“There was a Downworld meeting,” Magnus said, keeping his voice brusque. He wanted to pull Alec into his arms and hold him close. Alec’s hugs could always make the rest of the world fade away, drowned out by his smell, held at bay by the strength of his biceps. “I was on my way out,” he added pointedly. There was no point in dwelling on the past, especially not when everywhere he looked he was reminded of the carnage of war.

 

“I’ll walk you,” Alec offered, looking like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, just being in Magnus’s presence.

 

Knowing him, he wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise. “Fine,” Magnus said, stepping around him.

 

They were quiet until they made it outside. As soon as they were hit by bright rays of sunlight and a cool rush of air, Alec said: “I think about you every day. Wonder how you’re doing. If you’re okay.”

 

Magnus barely managed to suppress a flinch. Somehow he’d forgotten that Alec wasn’t like anyone else, who’d lead with small talk, or make any kind of effort to mask how they felt. Alec didn’t know how to be coy. He didn’t have it in him. He was always brutally honest, never hiding anything he felt. When they were dating, Magnus appreciated that about him. Right now, it felt like being hit in the chest by one of Alec’s arrows.

 

“ _Alexander_ ,” he said, a warning that came out weaker than he’d like.

 

Alec looked exhausted. His entire body was sagging, which gave him the look of a ridiculously large human puppet, held suspended by invisible strings. “I can’t fight like this,” Alec said with a note of urgency. He put a hand on Magnus’s arm, and Magnus was so starved for touch he couldn’t bring himself to shake it off. “I hate feeling like we’re on different sides.”

 

“The Clave thinks we are,” Magnus pointed out.

 

“To _hell_ with the Clave,” Alec snapped. He promptly managed to look perfectly conflicted about it, simultaneously horrified at himself, and a little proud. Magnus raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “I’m so tired,” Alec said. The way his voice wavered made Magnus want to burn the world down. Sebastian was already getting too close to Alec—was _going_ to get to him soon enough. The bruises darkening the delicate skin under Alec’s eyes said as much.

 

“I think we all are,” Magnus said, feeling abruptly like it was too much to be standing—to be sober—when he was seeing Alec like this.

 

“I can’t—” Alec started. He exhaled heavily. “Magnus, I—” Whenever he started to speak, he cut himself off. 

 

It seemed like he was building to another outburst so Magnus waited silently, bracing himself for whatever Alec had to say when he could finally string words together. He wasn’t prepared for Alec to lunge forward, take him by the face with both hands and kiss him, clumsy and too-frantic. The combination of Alec’s giant palms, warm and calloused, holding him near, and Alec’s lips, so insistent, made Magnus weak.

 

Time worked differently for him than it did for mortals. Months and years didn’t mean as much to him. They were such tiny fragments of his life that it was hard for them to feel significant. Even so, he was all too aware of how long it had been since they last kissed. The press of Alec’s lips was as charged as Magnus’s own magic. Every time they touched, he could feel the _hum_ of energy that was Alec’s essence, so fundamentally _good_.

 

Caught in it, Magnus reached for him, laying a hand on Alec’s chest. Through the worn fabric, he could feel the _thump, thump_ of Alec’s heart. He responded to the kiss in turn, tilting his head. As Alec made a gasping sound, stepping closer and letting his lips fall apart, all Magnus could think about was how soon that steady beat was going to be silenced.

 

Magnus threw himself backwards, putting as much distance between them as he could stand. He had to clench his hands by his sides because the urge to step forward and wrap his arms around Alec was so strong. His lips were still slick from the caress of Alec’s tongue.

 

Alec didn’t even look startled. Just so, so sad, lashes clumped. “I can’t stand this,” he said. “I miss you all the time.”

 

“Keep yourself out of harm’s way,” Magnus told him. “Please, Alexander. Keep yourself out of harm’s way. For me.”

 

The last thing Magnus saw as he opened the portal was Alec collapsing to the steps of the Institute, those invisible strings holding him upright finally collapsing. Alec put his face in his hands. Folded into himself, hugging his knees to his chest, he looked smaller than Magnus had ever seen him.

 

**

 

Of all the things Magnus has done in his life that he’s not proud of, magically spying on Alec at the Institute makes the top five easily. It’s invasive and wrong and probably illegal by some Clave rule he can’t remember, because the Clave has thousands of rules to govern Downworlder interactions with their darling Nephilim, but Magnus can’t bring himself to care about any of that. There’s been an itch under his skin for days, ever since he spoke to Maia, making him restless.

 

An incessant voice inside him refuses to believe the news. The last time he saw Alec, all those months ago in the final battle, Alec told Magnus that he _loved_ him. Never mind that they’d been broken up for going on a year, never mind that people were _dying_ every day by Sebastian’s hand, every time Alec found a moment, he told Magnus how he felt, face solemn and eyes burning with intensity. 

 

Magnus had always wondered when Alec would finally stop. Was that all it took— another interested man swooping in to take Magnus’s place? Someone more like Alec— a Shadowhunter? It only proved what Magnus had been telling Alec for ages— that they were too different after all; that one day Alec was going to end up with his own kind and be better off for it. This isn’t a surprise. Not really. Magnus just hadn’t expected it to happen so _soon._

 

Alec is stubborn about the people he loves, steadfastly devoted. Although Magnus had been waiting for Alec’s attention to eventually stray, as the time they were separated stretched on, he’d thought he’d get another year or more to brace himself before it finally did.

 

Feeling like there are heavy weights tied to each of his arms, Magnus raises them, calling upon his magic. The wards at the Institute are his work, which means they’re flawlessly impenetrable to all those who don’t have pure angel blood, or aren’t invited in. The wards light up for _him_ , though, hearing his call from far away and immediately parting for his magic. In the gap, Magnus opens a window. The mirror on the table in front of him starts to glow, the surface shimmers, and then abruptly Magnus is no longer seeing his own magnificent face reflected back at him, but instead the well-known interior of Alec’s office.

 

The room is nothing but impersonal, filled with the same paintings and sculptures that had been there during Aldertree’s tenure, and likely Alec’s parents before that. The sight of it makes Magnus’s throat clench, remembering all the nights he’d come to meet Alec here, coaxing him to dinner or to bed. This is where he’d confronted Alec about the soul sword and the fracture that had led to the end of their relationship first opened. It’s where Alec almost always is, which is why Magnus had started here in the first place.

 

In this case, he’d miscalculated. Instead of seeing Alec, brow furrowed and shoulders hunched while he scrolls through something on his iPad, Magnus sees Isabelle, beautiful and fashionable as always, standing over a desk that’s piled high with frilly off-white cloths, faded with time, chipped china plates and various kinds of pewter silverware, none of them quite matching. There’s a man in the room with her that Magnus doesn’t recognize, roughly Isabelle’s age, sharply dressed in a white linen shirt and khaki pants. He’s tall—almost as tall as Alec, Magnus thinks—with bronzed skin and startlingly green eyes. His dark beard is neatly trimmed, highlighting a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones.

 

This must be Khalid Elmasry of the Cairo institute.

 

 _‘Eyes as green as the forests in Idris, bigger arms than Jace Herondale, tall, everything you could want.’_ Magnus remembers, and it’s true. Khalid isn’t as handsome as Magnus, that’s indisputable, but that’s an impossibly high standard for anyone to meet, let alone a mortal.

 

“This is the finest of what they could find in Alicante,” Isabelle says, sounding apologetic in a way that’s unlike her. “The city was ransacked in the war— you know that—but these supplies were in storage and Jonathan’s soldiers weren’t able to get to them. It won’t all go together, I know it’s not—”

 

“It’s perfect,” Khalid says, with a faint accent. “I am grateful for your help with this.”

 

“Of course,” Isabelle says, relaxing slightly. She flips her curly hair off her shoulder. “We’ll be family soon. And my brother needs all the help he can get with any event that involves getting dressed up for a crowd of people.”

 

Also true. Magnus involuntarily smiles, remembering a call with Alec shortly after he’d been named Head of the Institute. Magnus had joking asked what he planned to wear on his first day on the job and the question had sent Alec into a minor panic. He’d ended up needing to portal over and choose for Alec. It’d been a dream come true, finally having the chance to both dress his boyfriend, and make Alec model for him.

 

The easy smile on Khalid’s face is transformed into a look of longing that’s striking in its severity. However long he’s been at the Institute, it’s immediately apparent how much he’s come to care for Alec. “I think it’s more than the decorations Alec wishes to avoid,” he says, mouth twisting.

 

Isabelle lays a comforting hand on Khalid’s shoulder. “He’ll come around,” she says. She waves at the various decorative pieces scattered across the table. “All of this just isn’t his _thing_.” The corner of her mouth turns up as she says it, betraying an exasperated fondness for her brother.

 

A small but vocal portion of Magnus feels betrayed seeing how clearly pleased Isabelle is by the man her brother has chosen to spend his life with. Back when Magnus had been the one with Alec, they’d been close too. Back then, she’d been nudging Magnus instead, shooting him a commiserating smile whenever Alec was particularly brusque with either of them. It’s not like he can blame her for the change of heart, though. She wouldn’t be Isabelle Lightwood if she wasn’t ferociously loyal to the people she loves. Twice now, Magnus has stood watching Alec’s heart break in front of him, watching light glint off the unshed tears in Alec’s eyes, while knowing it was entirely (well, mostly) his fault. Eventually she must have realized Magnus is all wrong for her brother.

 

Khalid sighs. “I fear he’ll never change his mind,” he says. “Alec hasn’t exactly been… affectionate with me.”

 

Isabelle laughs, stepping closer to her future brother-in-law. “That’s how my brother is,” she says. “Sometimes he’s at his worst with the people he actually likes.”

 

“Ain't that the truth,” Magnus mutters. He thinks about Alec in the weeks before their relationship, face hard and body tense, aggressively determined to push Magnus away. Back then, Magnus had searched for every sign he could find that Alec felt the same: the flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth; the darkening of his eyes as his pupils widened; the way his gaze would jump to Magnus sometimes when they were in the same room, like Alec couldn’t help himself. If anyone knows what Alec is like when he likes someone and doesn’t want to admit it, it’s Magnus.

 

A strangled sound tears itself from his throat. With the jerky wave of a hand, the scene collapses onto itself, leaving his own reflection staring back at him. Several pots of kohl and shimmering powders go flying across the room, smashing against the floor. In the mirror he can see the storm behind his eyes—the churning mass of all the things he doesn’t want to feel about this wedding: Regret. Bitterness. Jealousy. And foremost of all, a particular kind of vindication. This only meant he’d made the right decision after all. Things had worked out the way they were supposed to—Alec had found a way to choose the Clave, and still get his happily ever after.

 

Magnus takes a deep breath and blinks three times, slow and careful, until the person looking back at him is composed, all traces of his inner turmoil wiped away. Sitting there, trying his hardest not to think of Alec, naturally that’s where his thoughts inevitably turn. They always seem to return to Alec...

 

**

 

The tunnel was unnaturally empty, worryingly so, but Magnus trusted his intel and he kept going, running at breakneck speed. His hand was raised, at the ready, magic radiating from his palm. His nerves were tighter than he could remember them being in a long time. Every sound, every flicker of shadow made him tense, ready to unleash a torrent of power. When a figure came into view several yards away, just outside of the chamber he was looking for, he almost blasted them into dust from sheer adrenaline.

 

It was only seeing the curve of a bow pointed directly at him, arrow notched, that made him hesitate. Instead of lashing out, he took several careful steps forward, barely daring to breathe.

 

“Magnus?” Alec called, with an edge to his voice.

 

Magnus didn’t lower his hand. “Yes,” he said, warily. He did dare to take two more steps despite the arrow trained on him.

 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Alec said. He sounded guarded in a way he never had before with Magnus. Considering how many Downworlders had defected to join the forces of the Seelie Queen regardless of, or maybe because of, her allegiance to Sebastian, it was believable that they could be fighting on different sides.

 

“You either,” Magnus said. As he moved even closer, Magnus’s mind was playing through every possible scenario that might unfold in the wake of this conversation. No matter what, he’d never be the one to strike first at Alec. They _were_ on the same side, he at least knew that. But he was trying to prepare himself for the possibility that Alec would attack _him._ If he had to incapacitate Alec for his own safety, he could do it, however difficult it would be.

 

“Look,” Magnus began.

 

“I know you don’t trust me,” Alec said at the exact same time. He didn’t seem to have heard Magnus. He had a mulish expression on his face, like he was going to make himself heard, even if it got him killed. Abruptly, he lowered his bow, leaving himself exposed. Somehow the gesture made Magnus feel more anxious, concerned about what else might be waiting in this dim corridor to get the two of them. “I would _never_ hurt you,” Alec said.

 

“What are you doing here?” Magnus asked as his heart gave a traitorous flutter. From what he’d heard, opening the door they were both standing outside of was tantamount to a death sentence.

 

The speed of Alec’s breath was evident in the rise and fall of his chest. Through the heavy iron door, strange sounds kept leaking out: the screams of demons. A cold, cruel laugh. “I’m playing the distraction,” Alec said.

 

“It’s a suicide mission,” Magnus said. The words tasted sour. He’d resigned himself to his own fate, but it was harder to stomach the thought of willingly letting Alec making the same choice.

 

Something dark passed over Alec’s face, quickly suppressed. He didn’t respond to the comment. “Why are you here?” he asked instead.

 

Magnus rolled his hand one finger at a time, making the ball of magic he was containing expand and contract. His job was remarkably similar to Alec’s—set off the largest explosion he could manage in hopes of keeping the Endarkened’s attention away from the location where the real battle was taking place; the place where the wolves and Night Children were going to be. “I’m being flashy,” he said.

 

The corner of Alec’s mouth quirked up. It wasn’t a happy smile. Backlit by the faint light, he looked like a God of War, ruthless and impossibly beautiful. He had the strength and certainty of a Spartan warrior. However many times Magnus had fought by his side before, this moment stood out. He was awed by Alec for the first time, not for the gentleness of his heart, but for his heavenly mandate— the warrior side of him that Magnus had despised in other Shadowhunters.

 

“Then you shouldn’t be alone,” Alec said. He nodded for Magnus to open the door, already taking a step backwards to blend into the shadows, an arrow notched to fly.

 

**

As illuminating as the scene of Isabelle and Khalid had been, Magnus had originally set out to see _Alec_. After ten minutes of pacing restlessly in his apartment, thinking about Isabelle smiling, comforting her future brother-in-law, that urge hasn’t subsided.  If anything, it’s only worsened. Knowing exactly how terrible he’s being, doing this a second time, never mind the first, he returns to his seat at the mirror, calling forth his magic.

 

This time he focuses harder, honing his Eye on Alec’s energy, nearly as familiar to him as his own. On the mirror, one of the Institute briefing rooms ripples into view. Alec is sitting at a long station, quickly moving his hands to scan through a hologram of a map. His mouth is pinched, forehead wrinkling while he fails to find whatever it is that he’s looking for. He’s half sitting on a stool, one leg extended straight in front of him. There’s a crutch leaning against the table in Alec’s reach.

 

Magnus has never forgotten why Alec needs that support, not once, but the sight of that crutch is a reminder of one of the worst days of his life. He thinks about Alec lying on a cold stone floor, face contorted with agony, and tastes bile.

 

It’s not the scene Magnus had been expecting— not Alec blissfully happy, smiling in that rare way he has that makes him look years younger, like someone else entirely, who’d never been saddled with the burden of a name that comes with hundreds of years of expectations. Right now, Alec looks exactly the same as he usually does at work: Pensive. A little tightly strung. Handsome.

 

Any relief Magnus might feel is short-lived. Along the edge of the mirror, Isabelle appears, followed closely by Khalid. She breaks directly across the room to Alec, cutting an especially impressive figure in three-inch red wedges paired with a form-fitting navy skirt and a tight red crop top ending at the ribs. Khalid has to work to keep up with her powerful strides, which a small part of Magnus enjoys immensely. At the sound of Isabelle’s clicking heels, Alec glances up. His surly expression breaks into an easy smile. “Hey Izzy,” Alec says. “Khalid.” he adds.

 

Isabelle leans next to her brother against the table while Khalid circles to come behind him, placing a hand on Alec’s shoulder. No matter how many centuries of experience he has, Magnus can’t stop the burst of fury he feels from affecting his work. The projection of the scene on the mirror flickers with the sudden surge of his magic.

 

“We’re making you come to dinner,” Isabelle says, one hand on her cocked hip. “And you’re giving us your opinions on things for exactly five minutes. You can time it if you want.”

 

“I’m not hungry,” Alec says, voice flat. “And I _told—”_

 

 _“_ You’re coming anyway,” Isabelle tells him, voice equally as terrifying, although she’s feigning sweetness. She raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘ _Keep trying me’._

 

They have a short staring contest that seems to double as a conversation in which nothing is said aloud.

 

“I’ll come to dinner,” Alec says, mouth twisting.

 

“Great,” Isabelle says, looking pleased as she unsubtly winks at Khalid.

 

She steps away from the table, waiting expectantly, but Alec doesn’t move. He only rolls his shoulders, forcing Khalid to drop his hand. “I’ll catch up to you,” Alec says.

 

His sister doesn’t look convinced. “ _Will you_?” she asks, with supreme skepticism.

 

Alec’s eyes flicker to the crutches jutting out into the space between them. “ _Izzy_ ,” he says, a little pleadingly.

 

Isabelle hesitates, biting her lip like she wants to say something. Then she sighs, jerking her head at Khalid before looking to the door. “We’ll save you a seat,” she says, in a way Magnus has never heard her sound before, almost helpless. That, as much as the faint trace of embarrassment on Alec’s face, makes Magnus’s heart clench. Among the Lightwoods, Isabelle is always the one who knows what to do— who has an answer to whatever the world may throw at them. She’s never been one to sound so _lost_.

 

Alec waits until they’ve both taken several steps towards the door before he tries to stand. It’s apparently a slow-going process. He braces one hand on the table and the other on a heavy wooden chair, using the leverage to carefully push himself to his feet. His forearms strain, veins bulging with the effort of lowering his weight. Despite all his care, the first touch of his bad leg to the floor makes his face go rigid with pain.

 

Magnus lifts his hand, planning to cut the feed. He knows Alec better than almost anyone, and Alec would hate to know that anyone was seeing this; this moment he’d tried so hard to keep private. Even though he’s spent most of his life taking care of the people he loves, Alec isn’t used to being looked out for in return. He’d mistake the way Magnus is burning with the desire to break through the wards and help him for pity, and he’d be _furious_.

 

As Alec takes his first few steps, face locked in a grimace, Khalid looks back over his shoulder and notices. He retraces his steps, stopping just shy of Alec and splaying his fingers over the jut of Alec’s collarbone under his shirt. Magnus drops his hand, feeling a muscle tic in his cheek.

 

“You don’t have to hide anything from me, Alec,” Khalid says, green eyes earnest. His accent is particularly soothing in this moment, when he’s lowered his voice. “Especially not this.”

 

Alec gives him an icy look that Magnus is intimately familiar with from the early days when he was courting Alec. “I’m not hiding anything,” Alec says.

 

With a sinking feeling, Magnus finally dissolves the illusion. Admittedly, he’d been expecting to see a different side to Alec when he first started... he hates to use the word ‘spying’. He’d expected to see the Alec he’d previously come to love, who was warm and open and expressive. This Alec was still recognizable, though. This was the way Alec acted when he didn’t want to admit how much he was interested in someone. Isabelle was right. In a few more weeks, when all the fuss of the wedding died down and Alec could relax, Khalid was going to find himself the recipient of someone closer to what he was clearly hoping for— someone physically demonstrative, and prone to grand declarations of feelings.

 

Magnus sighs heavily and stands, making his way to his _special_ liquor cabinet; the one that’s locked to all but his own magical signature. If anything warranted breaking out one of his finest vintages, it was this.

 

**

_I hope that your history with my son will not preclude your ability to perform this job promptly and professionally._

When he first received the fire message from Maryse requesting that he strengthen the wards at the Institute in preparation for Alec’s wedding, it had seemed liked an easy decision to make. _Of course_ he could remain professional. Magnus was over 400 years old. He’d endured many situations more disagreeable than doing a job for the family of someone he’d broken up with a year-and-a-half ago. More so, Maryse was offering him two times the going rate for his services, and Magnus had already been waiting for the chance to go in person to the Institute. Somewhere inside him, he still found it hard to believe what he’d already seen so clearly with his magic: that Alec had finally moved on to someone else.

 

In practice, visiting the Institute is harder than he’d been anticipating. The Maryse who welcomes him upon his arrival seems to have undergone a personality transplant from the last time he saw her. She’s smiling, for one (not at him, mind you, but at the rest of the world, all the various Shadowhunters who cross their paths as they move through the hallways to the main audience room). As they walk, she talks animatedly in a way he doesn’t recognize from her.

 

“Shadowhunters around the world will be here to pay their respects to Alec and Khalid,” she says. “The heads of most major Institutes. They are all grateful to Alec for the role he played in stopping Jonathan.”

 

“Of course,” Magnus says, warmed on Alec’s behalf. He’d been there when Maryse first learned about Alec’s sexuality, after all, and he’s seen the pressure she so constantly places upon her son’s shoulders, only exacerbating his own intrinsic drive to succeed.

 

“It’ll be our largest gathering since the war,” Maryse says, while magic pours from Magnus’s hands for his initial assessment, bathing this section of the wall in a warm glow. “Nerves are still running high. So many of us lost loved ones. Security is of the utmost importance.”

 

Magnus finds himself captivated, watching her speak. She’s always been a proud person, but he’s never seen her radiate pride like this—pride not only in herself, but also in her children. Although Magnus hates to admit it, she’s done well for herself. Alec is marrying someone handsome and strong, rumored to be one of the best fighters to come out of the Cairo Institute in years. She’s done what every mom hopes to do one day— she’s found someone who’ll be able to look after her son when she’s no longer able to.

 

There’s a voice in his head that’s happy to point out a more cynical explanation for her happiness. Through this marriage, she’s once again securing power for the Lightwood name, ensuring that the family regains control of New York. As soon as he thinks it, he feels a frisson of guilt. Even that, he can’t pin on Maryse alone. Command had been Alec’s dream, something important to him personally, that he’d worked for his entire life. From the moment the healers had declared that Alec’s leg couldn’t be saved, Alec had lost the dream he’d fought so hard to achieve.

 

The official story was that Alec wanted to take some time for himself after the horrors of the final battle, so he’d resigned from his post. Every source Magnus could track implied that the Clave hadn’t believed a _cripple_ could lead their precious Nephilim, and so they’d forced him to step down. The thought made Magnus furious _._ Alec had nearly died saving them and they’d cast him away the first chance they got because he didn’t meet their sacred ideas of what the Nephilim should be anymore. Magnus kept thinking about how adrift Alec must feel, unable to fight or to command. His earlier worries, that Alec might not be sleeping well anymore, returned to him in a rush.

 

At the exact moment his thoughts linger on Alec, Alec enters on the far side of the room, struggling to avoid the harried man who’s following him with a bundle of gold fabric and a roll of measuring tape in hand. Alec looks frustrated, trying to make his way to a holograph while the man repeatedly insists on measuring him for his suit. No matter how hard Alec tries to get away, he’s slow on crutches, still uncertain in his movements, and it’s obvious the man is under strict orders to complete his task. Being in the same room as Alec for the first time in six months, Magnus feels a swell of longing and protectiveness that makes him falter in his movements, momentarily forgetting why he’d come here in the first place.

 

“I would never let anything happen to Alec,” Magnus tells Maryse fiercely, without thinking, slow to respond to her earlier instructions.

 

She gives him a strange look, so Magnus immediately turns his attention back to the wards. “This room is secure,” he declares, satisfied by all his readings. “Show me the room where you’ll be having the ceremony. That will require most of my attention.”

 

“Follow me,” Maryse says with a curt nod.

 

They’re almost to the door when a deep voice strikes a chord inside him, an echo of that moment in the war he’d so recently been reminiscing about. “Magnus,” Alec calls, voice raised enough to carry. There’s a clatter that suggests Alec is trying to make his way across the room. “Hold on, Magnus.”

 

It’s not fair; it’s not what Alec deserves, and Magnus knows it, but he keeps going, following Maryse out of the hall. Alec is getting _married,_ he reminds himself forcefully. It’s not like he’s been able to forget that for a single second since he found out.

 

**

 

When they reach the chapel where the ceremony will be performed, Maryse finally leaves him alone, summoned away by a young man bearing a message from the Consol. Alone among the pews, Magnus has a hard time maintaining control of his thoughts. Everywhere he looks, he’s assailed by flashes of a very different moment in his life. This is the same room where, two years ago, Alec surprised him, surprised _everyone,_ by leaving Lydia at the altar to be with Magnus. They’d had their first kiss here, full of passion and conviction, and Alec’s barely concealed terror. There’d been a moment, holding Alec in front of his family and the most respected leaders of his people, where Magnus hadn’t been able to stop thinking _him— he’s why I’ve been waiting for so long_.

 

While magic seeps into the walls, probing for any weaknesses, he forces himself to focus hard—to do exactly what _Maryse Lightwood_ had suggested and put Alec’s safety first, above these now painful memories. Every time his focus slips, he thinks about Alec’s tight grip on the lapels of his jacket and the wet heat of Alec’s mouth, suddenly demanding everything Alec had been fighting off for so many weeks. It’s been so long since he last kissed Alec. He misses it, misses getting lost for hours in the slide of Alec’s lips; the sensation of Alec’s hands rucking up his shirt, calloused hands running over his skin.

 

Magnus sighs heavily, jerking his attention once again to his work. There’s a patch of stones where his magic is worn thin, made more vulnerable, so he pours everything he can into fixing that, as well as the two similar spots he finds a few minutes later. When he’s done, he starts throwing up sensor spells for good measure— warnings for malice, vengefulness, demonic activity, and more. None of it is in his contract, but at this point he’ll do anything to stop himself from thinking about the _last_ time he held Alec; how certain he’d been that he’d felt Alec die in his arms.

 

“Magnus,” Alec says, voice rough. Although spoken quietly, the silence of the chamber magnifies the volume of the word.

 

Magnus whirls around, startled. He’d stopped spell casting at some point before Alec entered the room without noticing, but he reflexively throws down his hands anyway, not wanting to inadvertently hit Alec with anything. Alec is resting against the entrance to the chapel, face white and pinched. Even from a distance, Magnus can tell he’s breathing hard. Not much time has passed since Maryse left Magnus to finish the work on his own. Alec must have hurried to find Magnus here. The lines of pain on his face are unmistakable.

 

Guilt makes Magnus’s stomach churn. He’d felt safe with the distance between the briefing room and this building. It hadn’t occurred to him that Alec might try to follow him, like the determined idiot he could be. Alec moves again, coming to stand by Magnus at the end of a pew.

 

“Alex— Alec,” Magnus says. He clears his throat.

 

He thinks about Alec struggling through long deserted corridors, obstinately seeking Magnus out after Magnus had blown him off, aggravating his leg with every step. It’s not a pleasant thought. When Alec finally reaches his side, it propels Magnus to lay a hand on Alec’s arm, taking care that he only touches the sleeve of Alec’s shirt, not the hint of skin showing at Alec’s wrist, and slowly leaches away the pain making Alec’s face go so tight.

 

Alec visibly straightens, face sliding into one of his rueful half smiles. “Thanks,” he says.

 

Magnus nods stiffly, and drops his hand.

 

“I’ve sent you so many messages,” Alec says abruptly. He’s never been one for small talk. “And called.”

 

“I noticed,” Magnus says, inflecting a cool tone. He’s grateful for the high collars of his elaborate shirt—he feels safer with the frills on either side of his face, like they’re a shield against the world. The dark liner rimming his eyes will also hide much of what he’s feeling.

 

“Why haven’t you answered?” Alec demands.

 

The kinds of people Magnus had always fallen the hardest for before Alec—coy, conniving, and calculating—would’ve taken his silence for the message it was:  _leave this alone._ By contrast, Alec—who doesn’t ever seem to say anything besides exactly what he’s thinking—seems to have taken it as a sign that he needed to try harder to make contact. That particular facet of his personality had always been as infuriating as it was charming. Right now the infuriating half is winning out.

 

“I’ve been busy,” Magnus says pointedly. “For _example_ , helping your mother with preparations for your _wedding._ I’m being paid very handsomely for my time. I owe you some thanks for that, I imagine.”

 

Inexplicably, that makes Alec’s smile widen, eyes brightening like Magnus has something good; something he’s relieved to hear.

 

“You think I’m getting married?” Alec asks. His disbelief has an almost giddy quality to it. He huffs an incredulous laugh, totally incongruous with the way Magnus feels sick with longing, shaky just being near him.  “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

 

It’s the last thing Magnus was expecting to hear. He’s shocked speechless for a few seconds, forcing down a spike of hope in the face of Alec’s foray into insanity.

 

“Of course you’re getting married,” Magnus says, raising himself up, growing increasingly self-righteous. “All I’ve heard about for weeks is your wedding. Henry VIII’s wasn’t half so anticipated.”

 

“Listen—” Alec starts, but Magnus doesn’t let him finish.

 

“You were just being fitted for your suit,” Magnus says, on a roll now. “Or have I missed something, _Alexander_?” He means to be scathing; to put an immediate halt to whatever nonsense Alec is trying to feed him. This conversation is terrifying him for some reason. The longer he stands here, the more he feels his chest constricting, rib cage drawing tightly against his heart.

 

“I’m _not_ getting married,” Alec repeats. That gaze of his, so focused, pupils so intensely dark, is locked on Magnus. “I haven’t been quiet about that. I’ve told Isabelle, my parents, Khalid, _everyone,_ that I don’t want this wedding.”

 

Alec might be the most honest, openly demonstrative person that Magnus has ever dated, but no one else has ever made him feel as unsteady, either; constantly terrified that the world is going to give way beneath him and leave everything he’s so carefully built in ruins. He can barely find his voice to respond. He raises a hand, toying with the black pearl he has studded in one ear. “Why not?” he asks.

 

The steady sincerity in Alec’s eyes bows to something more ferocious. There’s a fire in his eyes, something like the way he sets his stance when a target comes fully into his sight.

 

“I’m not marrying anyone who isn’t you,” Alec says, stepping closer, the toe of his heavy boot touching the supple leather of Magnus’s smaller loafers.

 

Relief blossoms, beautiful and sweet in Magnus’s chest, only to be replaced seconds later by a sick kind of panic. Like always, Alec has managed to do the _one_ thing Magnus wasn’t bracing himself for, and he’s left reeling. It hurt, more than anything, knowing Alec was promised for, but it was _safe._ Being bitter and jealous was a lot easier than whatever this is.

 

 “I love _you,_ Magnus,” Alec says, reaching forward to take his hand.

 

That was the last thing he’d said to Magnus, back in that horrible room of blood and dust. _I love you._ The words had been almost inaudible then, rough with pain and fear, nothing like the strength of his voice now. There’s a current to the way Alec says it, something absolute, as if the force of his love will outlast even Magnus’s lifespan.

 

Before the revelation about the soul sword, before their breakup, Magnus had been trying to find a time when he could whisk Alec away from the chaos of war and death to take him to sun-drenched Italy for a few days of rest. He’d imagined walking hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets of Rome, showing him the remains of some of history’s greatest rulers: Trajan. Julius Caesar. Augustus. Those ancient sites thrummed with a presence that was timeless. The men who were honored in the forum had left legacies that had survived thousands of years. That’s what Alec’s love felt like sometimes—like a marble column, rising high from a pedestal in a city square, that had survived war and vandalism, and the steady weathering of time.

 

Except monuments crumbled. Magnus could still remember Alec trembling in his arms; how he’d looked so scared, the harder he fought to draw breath; how the warmth had slowly gone out of his body…

 

**

 

The noise Alec made as the sword caught his leg, something primal, full of pain, was the last thing Magnus heard. After that, there was nothing but a rushing in his ears, as if he were standing under an enormous waterfall. The sounds of battle were overwhelmed by that deafening roaring. All that mattered was getting to Alec. Any Endarkened in his path slipped away from him as if they were melting. Maybe they were. Magnus was distantly aware that he was calling upon some reserve of magic he’d never accessed before, something more evil than good, that had always reminded him too much of his father for his own comfort. In seconds, Magnus was on the ground beside Alec, pulling him half into Magnus’s lap.

 

“I’m here Alexander,” he tried to say. He couldn’t tell if his mouth was moving.

 

His hands were in Alec’s hair, stroking through the dusty strands. Alec’s lips kept parting, showing every tremor of pain that was rocking him. There were deep lines etched into his face, the contrast growing starker as his skin went white. Fat wet tears clung to his lashes. Against the shockingly red blood spreading further from Alec’s leg by the second, already oozing against the toe of Magnus’s boot, he looked like a cruel parody of a Disney prince.

 

Magnus’s magic had taken on a mind of its own. Some of it was lashing out wildly, burning anyone who dared come near. The rest of it had formed a sparkling curtain around them, keeping them safe. He diverted some of it, or maybe found even more deep inside himself, and directed the magic to Alec, desperately looking for a way to help.

 

Sound came slamming back to him at once: Alec’s terrible hitching cries. The too-slow beat of Alec’s heart, so faint that Magnus had to strain to catch it. Alec’s eyes were locked on his, consumed by agony, and worse, a dawning terror of what was coming for him.

 

“I’m here,” Magnus repeated, voice shaking. He’d never felt a fear like this before. It was a fate worse than death to watch someone you loved die in front of you. His body was growing cold; one of those freezes that sank into your bones, lingering long after you found warmth.

 

His magic found the weak pulse of Alec’s life and concentrated there, strengthening it, artificially sustaining it. He knew with a tired certainty that he would give every drop of power he had to keep Alec alive, but he was so scared it wouldn’t be enough. There was _so much_ blood.

 

Alec was visibly struggling to keep his eyes open now. He persisted on trying to talk regardless, forcing out three raspy words.

 

“ _Shh,_ ” Magnus said, hand passing through Alec’s hair in another fluttery helpless motion. He heard in his voice that he’d started to cry. His magic erased the lines on Alec’s face, easing him into sleep so he would no longer insist on wasting his energy on pointless declarations.

 

Eventually, his shield fell. It didn’t matter. Every Endarkened in the room with them was long dead. His vision kept blurring, body listing sideways. The cold of the stone floor, combined with a seeping wetness, had sunk through Magnus’s trousers. He was shivering.

 

Still, he kept going. His magic was the only thing keeping Alec’s heart beating.

 

He kept going when Jace and Clary burst into the room, flush with victory, even though Clary had to support Jace, who was clutching frantically at his parabatai rune. He kept going when Clary called forth a portal, looking horrified.

 

He didn’t let the darkness consume him until they were through to Alicante and Alec was in the hands of Brother Zachariah, the only being on the planet that Magnus would’ve trusted to take Alec away from him at that point.

 

**

 

If he’d died that night in Magnus’s arms, Magnus’s heart would’ve broken beyond repair, like a smashed portal, reduced to thousands of glinting shards. The strength of Alec’s feelings for him would mean nothing to Magnus when he was inevitably left living without Alec.

 

“I’m finished here,” Magnus says, jerking backwards away from Alec’s outstretched hand.

 

All he has to do is make to it the hall. With his leg, Alec can’t hope to catch him. Not now that Magnus knows to expect him.

 

“You’re not,” Alec says. His eyes are wide. The hand he’s dropped to his side is tapping a frantic rhythm against his hip. “ _We’re_ not. You and me, we still have—”

 

“We don’t have anything,” Magnus snaps.

 

His heart beats more slowly than mortals’. He’d known that before he started dating Alec, but Alec had been particularly fascinated by it, often laying his head on Magnus’s chest to listen to the molasses slow rhythm. Right now, though, he can feel it making a valiant effort to speed up. This conversation makes him feel trapped, _hunted,_ and it makes his palms sweat, skin prickling with awareness. His rapid pulse keeps telling him _get out, get out, get out._  

 

“We _do_ ,” Alec insists. “You have to believe me. I don’t want this wed—”

 

“I need to go,” Magnus says, and makes his escape, lungs burning.

 

**

 

_Be my guest for dinner at the Institute? I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life._

Two days later, a second fire message arrives for Magnus, this time from the person he’s least equipped to handle. The note causes him a significant amount of strain. He’d think it was Alec trying to keep things professional, offering to host instead of holding the dinner somewhere with the potential to be more romantic, if he didn’t already know that Alec rarely leaves the Institute anymore. The combination of his high tally of demon kills and his injury paints a giant target on his back whenever he steps outside the magical protections of the Institute walls.

 

Besides, Magnus knows from _personal_ experience how romantic the Institute offices can be when properly staged. He’d become a bit of an expert at that, towards the end of their relationship.

 

It’s the second line of the note that gets him. That’s undeniable. Until a few days ago, Magnus hadn’t seen Alec after the end of the Dark War; had deleted his voicemails and ignored all of his messages. If Alec needs the closure of finally thanking Magnus face-to-face, well then, Magnus should give it to him, shouldn’t he? If Alec needs to put a real end to their relationship so he can move on with his life and marry Khalid, then Magnus owes that to him.

 

On this occasion, Alec’s office isn’t decked with roses, candles and champagne, the way it would’ve been if Magnus was the one decorating and they were still together. Instead, the setup is so austere that Magnus genuinely can’t tell if Alec had been trying to make Magnus comfortable and overcompensated, or if he’d forgotten Magnus was coming in the first place. Both scenarios are equally plausible. The only setting, if you can even call it that, is a single circular wooden table, lacking any of the necessary accoutrements to eat—plates, glasses, silverware—let alone food. 

 

When Magnus arrives, Alec looks exactly the same as he almost always used to when Magnus came to visit. He’s sitting in a big chair by the fireplace, legs crossed, head in a book, with two fingers pressed to his brow. The sight lances through Magnus’s chest. His heart seems to shiver, as if shaking off the layers of dust caused by disuse. For a moment, Magnus doesn’t trust himself to speak. He raps two knuckles on the doorframe.

 

Alec violently jumps, sending the book toppling into his lap. “Oh. Magnus,” he says. “Is it already seven? I’d lost track of time.”

 

“Shocking,” Magnus says. Against his will, he feels the corner of his mouth turn up with fondness.

 

It’s clear that Alec is flustered. He runs an unsteady hand through his hair, shifting in his chair. “Sorry. I need to… I’ll get someone to bring us food.”

 

“Allow me,” Magnus offers, already raising an arm.

 

Alec shakes his head forcefully. “You’re my guest.” He begins the same exercise Magnus had witnessed when ‘checking in’ on the Institute, pushing up on his arms to more easily control his rise. His flexing triceps strain at the sleeves of his black t-shirt in a way that makes it difficult not to stare.

 

“I insist,” Magnus says. He winks, trying to put Alec at ease. “Better than whatever slop they consider food here.”

 

It has the opposite effect of what he intended. His words come out sounding flirtatious, and Alec’s cheeks turn faintly pink. Magnus twists, pretending to study the table while he makes a face at himself out of sight of Alec.

 

“Okay,” Alec says to his back.

 

Magnus thinks for a moment. With the wave of a hand, a table appears, set simply with two nearly matching plates of New York Strip, whipped potatoes, and creamed spinach. The only differences between the settings are the dressings—blue cheese for Alec, mushroom for Magnus—and the drinks—a fine glass of Nebbiolo for Magnus, cider for Alec. It pains him to leave the spread so simple, but he forgoes any other flourishes, resisting the urge to add a vase of fresh cut flowers, or a series of decorative votives. This dinner needs to remain professional at all costs.

 

When he turns back, Alec looks pleased. “Thanks,” he says. A smile plays at his mouth, even as he pushes the rest of the way to his feet and stiffly takes his first step towards Magnus.

 

“Shall we?” Magnus asks. He pulls out the first chair by hand, not wanting to deal with the sound of letting it scrape across the floor by magic. “After you.”

 

Alec comes forward without bothering to use his crutches. The distance isn’t too far. Magnus waits for him, hands on the back of the chair. As Alec slides into it, Magnus catches a whiff of a scent in the air—the stock soap the Institute provides. Most Shadowhunters use it, but it smells different on Alec, intermingling with his skin.

 

“How have you been?” Alec asks, as Magnus pushes him closer to the table. He asks it with obvious difficulty.

 

Magnus resists the urge to give him an incredulous look. They’ve never been the ‘ _How was your day, honey?’_ kind of couple. Making polite small talk shows admirable self-restraint for Alec. Slowly, he takes hold of his fork and knife, formulating his answer.

 

“I have been busy,” he says. “Since the war, my services have been in demand—pain potions, sleeping draughts, cosmetic spells. All of it.”

 

“That’s understandable,” Alec says. Every time he speaks, his deep voice sends a tremor down Magnus’s spine. Magnus takes two bites of the steak and one of the spinach. The food really is impeccable, which is to be expected, considering he took it from one of the finest steakhouses in Manhattan.

 

“How have _you_ been?” Magnus asks. It’s like pulling vampire fangs for his stocks. He knows how Alec has been. Alec recently got _engaged._

Alec takes his own bite of meat, chewing aggressively, like it’s overcooked, not perfectly medium-rare. “Fine,” Alec says, almost reluctantly. Then it’s like a dam has burst and any attempt at ‘good behavior’ is washed away by a torrent of feelings. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the sword,” Alec says. “I think about that all the time. If I could do that day over, I would in a heartbeat.”

 

In a moment, Magnus’s appetite is gone. He pushes his plate away, unable to meet Alec’s gaze. “It’s in the past,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does matter!” Alec bursts out, straightening. “If I hadn’t done that, I’d still have _you.”_

That isn’t necessarily the case, but Magnus abruptly doesn’t have the energy to argue the point. “You’re getting married, Alexander,” he says, resisting the urge to sigh. At least he can still stomach a mouthful of wine.

 

“I’m _not_ ,” Alec argues.

 

With great exaggeration, Magnus rolls his eyes. “You clearly are.”

 

“I don’t give a damn about Khalid,” Alec says, voice raised.

 

That calls for several more fortifying sips. “The way I see it,” Magnus says, voice pointedly icy. “You should get married, Alec. This is everything you’ve ever wanted: the Lightwood name restored, your family’s approval, and command regained, wrapped up in one attractive package.”

 

“I don’t care about any of that,” Alec says. “Magnus, the only thing I care about is you.”

 

His fork clatters, seemingly unnoticed, to the table. When he reaches for Magnus, Magnus is already bracing himself for it, immediately pushing back his chair. They’d been sitting more closely than he’d meant to, and it’s easy to put some distance between their bodies.

 

“No,” Magnus says, words mangled. “This isn’t why I came here. I only… I wanted to give us both closure.”

 

“We don’t need closure, we need _each other,”_ Alec declares.

 

Talking to him is as fruitless as punching a brick wall, over and over, and expecting it to give way. “I don’t have any interest in being in the middle of Nephilim affairs again,” Magnus tells him. “Marry that Shadowhunter. Save us both a world of heartbreak.”

 

Alec’s eyes look wet. Magnus has seen that before—has caused it several times now. “I won’t,” Alec says, choked.

 

Magnus can’t stand to look at him. He pointedly lifts his napkin from his lap and places it on the table. “I’ll see myself out,” he says.

 

**

 

Time passes, daylight and nights almost overlapping, sometimes inseparable. Two weeks disappear, maybe three. Magnus isn’t sober for any of it. He sits in his dark, empty apartment and thinks only of Alec and the people he’s lost. The one night he ventures out, trying to lose himself in the pounding music of Pandemonium, he still overhears shouted conversations about the upcoming wedding each time he steps up to the bar.

 

Alec doesn’t try to contact him again. Magnus understands the meaning of that perfectly—Alec has finally, _finally,_ let this go. The thought doesn’t make him feel as relieved as he’d expected. Mostly, it burns.

 

The last time Alec had been getting married, it’d been Isabelle who made the last ditch effort to convince Magnus to come and save her brother from himself. This time it’s Clary who mails him the gilded invitation. In a flowery script, it lists everything Magnus would need to know to put a stop to the ceremony. With unwavering certainty, he knows that if he walked into that chapel and made his case for Alec, it would be as if Alec were never engaged at all. They’d leave the church together.

 

Magnus doesn’t go.

 

Day of, he sits alone on his balcony, staring unseeing at the stunning view stretched before him, sun-kissed by light. He swirls his Cosmo, often forgetting to take sips. He feels empty.

 

Gradually, the sips he does manage take hold. It becomes too easy to sink into misery. As long as he stays in New York, he’s going to have to deal with this wedding. Every time Magnus is called to the Institute, he’s going to see Alec and his _husband_ leading side-by-side. For the rest of Alec’s mortal life, Magnus is going to see him and Khalid together. Khalid’s going to be the one supporting Alec when times get rough, quieting his anxious spells, and urging him to take time for himself when needed. Magnus has never had to see Alec kissing someone else. The sight would cleave his heart in two.

 

The events of today are going to be the spark that finally forces him out of New York. In addition to losing Alec once and for all, he’s never going to see Clary, Maia, Jace, or Isabelle again. They all drive him crazy sometimes in their own particular ways, but he loves them. He’s going to miss them, and miss getting to see as they hit all of life’s wonderful milestones. The last of the liquor in Magnus’s glass claws its way down his throat as he throws back the remains of his glass. With the snap of his fingers, Magnus refills it to the brim.

 

“There you are,” Alec says.

 

Magnus jumps, splashing pink liquid across his lap. He hadn’t heard the screen door sliding. Open-mouthed and wide eyed, Magnus jerks his head up, gaze immediately landing on Alec.

 

Alec is leaning against the doorframe, staring at Magnus with an intensity that makes Magnus fear his knees would give out if he tried to stand. Judging by his outfit, Alec hadn’t dressed for the wedding at all. He’s messy haired, in one of his most worn shirts, one Magnus had often begged to burn, then slept with fisted under his pillow when Alec was kept late on missions.

 

Something warm, so long dormant that Magnus can barely remember its name, starts to bloom in his chest. For the first time, he thinks he can fully appreciate how Alec must have felt that day on the altar when Magnus burst in. He’s as relieved as he is terrified, momentarily held frozen by the force of his desire to go to Alec, at war with the part of him that still vividly remembers how terrified he’d been, for so many long hours, that Alec was going to die in his arms.

 

“ _Alexander,”_ Magnus breathes out, half rising to his feet.

 

“I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’ll keep saying it if I have to,” Alec says. Magnus has loved dozens of people in his long life, spent decades with them. The way Alec is looking at him holds the kind of love that makes all that had come before fade in comparison. No one has ever loved him the way Alec does, as relentless as the ocean tides. No one ever will. Alec speaks slowly, clearly, enunciating every word. “I’m not marrying anyone who isn’t you.”

 

The ice that has been surrounding Magnus’s core, constantly chilling him, starts to thaw then. Great pieces of it fall away, the final remaining chinks of his armor disappearing. However fleeting their time together may be, they belong with one another. Magnus isn’t saving himself pain by pushing Alec away. He’s broken without Alec by his side. His vision blurs before he blinks several times to clear it.

 

In that time, Alec takes several steps closer, moving gracefully with the crutch, like it’s an extension of himself, another weapon in his arsenal. If Magnus doesn’t move Alec will still come to him, he sees that now. Sometimes he wants to be brave enough to show Alec how loved he is in return. He doesn’t want Alec to always be the one to close the gap between them. That’s something worth dedicating a lifetime to: spending every day ensuring that Alec feels even a fraction of the regard he so freely shares with Magnus.

 

This time, he meets Alec halfway, sliding his hands around Alec’s neck, fingertips meeting in the coarse hair just above the last knob of Alec’s spine. At the touch, his magic flares, contented. It _knows_ Alec, remembers him. Alec’s heart beats surprisingly steady against his palm. Magnus tips his head back to catch Alec’s brilliantly hazel eyes, shining in the sun, full of patience, and an incredible amount of affection.

 

“I’m sorry,” Magnus says, voice thick.

 

Alec shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he says, voice dipping, going rougher.

 

“I love you,” Magnus says, words being wrenched from him. He watches Alec’s smile bloom, sweetly beautiful, until it covers his whole face, eyes crinkling, a flash of white showing between his lips. That feeling he’d forgotten, in the time since the Dark War... he thinks he’s _happy._ “Alexander, I love you so.”

 

Alec closes his eyes, tipping his head forward. Before Magnus can kiss him—which he very badly wants to do, making up for lost time—Alec gently brings their foreheads together. Startled, Magnus lets his own lashes fall closed. He sucks in one breath, too sharp, then takes several more, increasingly deep. The tense set of his shoulders relaxes. Standing there, holding Alec, breathing him in, he finally feels at peace.


End file.
